


Drawing Parallels

by Mums_the_Word



Category: The Sinner (TV), White Collar
Genre: Deep Pathos and Angst, Disappearances, Emotional Hurt, Gen, References to “The Sinner;” Spoiler Alert if you have not seen The Sinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23650540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: After Neal Caffrey's parole ends, he disappears like a phantom in the night. He left behind bewildered friends who never saw this coming. Of course, Peter Burke needs answers, and this story draws parallels to Matt Bomer’s portrayal of Jamie Burns in the third and latest version of the television series The Sinner. I sincerely hope that many of you were able to see Matt’s poignant and haunting characterization of a conflicted man following a path to hell.
Relationships: Elizabeth Burke/Peter Burke, Jamie Burns & Harry Ambrose, Jamie Burns & Nick Haas, Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

It was a momentous occasion in Peter’s White Collar world. Tonight was Friday, and at the stroke of midnight, Neal’s tracker would go dark for the last time. The paroled felon had defied the odds and endured four long years of servitude to the FBI as Peter’s CI. Peter still couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the astounding feat culminating after years of angst, moral dilemmas, and some actual forays off the reservation. But the young con artist had managed to do it and Peter was beyond proud, if almost a bit sad that it was all coming to an end. He had grown fond of this infuriating puzzle of a man, perhaps even closer than a handler and informant should be. But to be completely honest, Peter was the first to admit that he really never understood the guy because Neal still harbored his own secretive depths. You only got to see what he allowed you to see.

Of course, every one of Neal’s coworkers had fallen under his spell during his time in the FBI bullpen, so they insisted that there should be a celebratory extravaganza to mark his moving out of their lives. They all agreed the workday would be a lot duller without Caffrey around to liven things up. El was only too happy to liaison with Jones and Diana, and the following Saturday night would top even the most boisterous bachelor party. She had rented a private room in a nearby upscale hotel and planned the unique venue down to the last detail.

On Saturday, at the stroke of 8 pm, White Collar personnel began streaming in and claiming their tables, appropriately adorned with scattered guest favors—little sets of handcuffs and “Get Out of Jail Free” Monopoly cards. The huge sheet cake was off to the side and depicted prison bars that were pried open in the middle. The booze was free flowing and the band raucous. Everybody seemed to be letting their hair down and having a great time. There was only one very important thing missing, and that was the guest of honor.

Peter had driven Neal home the night before after their tour at the office came to an end. He had turned to the paroled felon before he exited the car in front of June’s home. “I have to say that you sometimes astound me, Neal, and this is one of those times. I know you could have flown the coop whenever you chose, but you stayed. That says a lot about your character. I’m proud of you—everybody is proud of you. Even Reese Hughes is venturing out of retirement tomorrow night to give you a proper send off. El wants a bit of drama, so we’re gonna make it real with a little kitschy ceremony when I actually unlock your tracker and remove it for the final time.”

Neal gave Peter a smile, not exactly his charming one, but more like a shadow of something soft and melancholy. “It was good working with you, Peter,” he murmured before exiting the sedan and walking away. Peter had no precognition, no feeling in his gut, that Neal would disappear into thin air. When the bewildered FBI handler had gone to Neal’s loft the day after the party, it was empty. There was still the musky scent of Neal’s aftershave, but that was the total essence left behind by the absent conman. To make it even more visceral, Neal’s black anklet lay open on the kitchen counter, so, no doubt, Neal had a duplicate key for the one Peter carried. How long he had it in his possession was anybody’s guess. There were dust covers already adorning the furniture, so a freed former criminal had obviously talked with June in advance and shared his plan to vanish.

Peter’s perceptions were like a kaleidoscope of garish, conflicting emotions coalescing then breaking apart into pieces. To be fair, Neal didn’t owe Peter an explanation. He didn’t owe anybody anything anymore because he had paid his debts. As the days wore on with no contact from his friend and no sightings of his handsome face, Peter tried to stem the encroaching sense of hurt and disillusionment. He theorized that Neal was far away from New York, most likely revisiting old haunts in Europe and reveling in his freedom. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t send a postcard from time to time. He had, at least, done that years ago when he had been on the run and evading Peter’s clutches. Peter assumed that Mozzie was currently right by Neal’s side, and that made Peter a bit jealous of their close relationship. He theorized that the two were probably plotting and planning to take up where they left off during their criminal past. Peter routinely checked Interpol for capers of Neal’s ilk, but none seemed to fit the profile. Then one day, he happened to run into Mozzie by chance in Washington Square Park. He was running his pitiful Three Card Monty scam on unsuspecting and naïve visitors to the Big Apple.

“Where’s Neal, Mozzie?” Peter demanded imperiously.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Mozzie taunted.

“Yeah, I would,” Peter replied with an edge to his voice.

“Well, tough nuggies for you, Suit, because I’m not about to tell you,” the little bald man simpered.

Peter cocked his head and stared at this infuriating twerp who had disrespected and annoyed him during the whole of Neal’s parole. Something was definitely off about Mozzie’s petty, childish bantering, and then it suddenly seemed to make a bit of sense.

“You don’t know where Neal is, do you?” Peter said as the light dawned. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here like a two-bit cliché of a flimflam man trying to bilk tourists out of their money. Neal left you behind, too.”

“I refuse to pander to your ridiculous drama, Suit,” Mozzie said with an attitude.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Peter commiserated. “You two were always joined at the hip, but then he leaves you behind in the dust. If it’s any consolation, I know how you feel. Neal mesmerizes you and draws you under his spell. You think it will be forever, but it’s only until he feels the need to go.”

Mozzie deflates just a bit. “He’s one of a kind, you know. When I was with him, it felt like holding onto the tail of a comet as it soared across the sky. The bolder the venture, the more empowered and alive he seemed, and you got caught up in his impulsive spontaneity.”

“I do know,” Peter agrees. “And I miss him, too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

One year later, Neal is still a phantom, or at least he is until the book hits the market. The hardback biography is entitled, _“Elusive Exploits,”_ and the anonymous author claims that it is a loosely complied “fictional” account of the life and times of a fabulous con artist named Neal Caffrey. It is instantly of interest to true crime enthusiasts, and they buy copies of the book by the dozens. It appeals to others for completely different reasons. Neal’s attractive face is plastered, in all its sexy glory, on the back of the jacket, and women actually swoon as they hug the tome to their bosoms. It doesn’t take long for it to hit number one on the best seller list of new novels. Even El buys a copy, which Peter immediately appropriates. El grudgingly let’s Peter read it before her.

“I’m going to bet my pension that Mozzie is the anonymous author of this ludicrous literary tribute to the career of a criminal,” Peter huffs. “Who else would have such in-depth knowledge of all those clever, death-defying capers that Neal pulled over the years all around the globe? Mozzie thinks he can pawn off this latest con by labeling it ‘fiction,’ and by flaunting the fact that the statute of limitations has run out on the crimes.”

“So, what if he is the author?” El shrugs. “You have to admit that Neal always was an intriguing man, whether he was committing crimes or staying on the straight and narrow. That’s the kind of stuff people like to read about, or maybe even fantasize about. Do you think Neal knows that Mozzie’s turned all Deep Throat? Maybe Hollywood can make a movie of Neal’s exploits—something along the lines of _All the President’s Men,_ or maybe that old one starring Cary Grant. I think it was called _To Catch a Thief_.”

“I believe Tinseltown has already made a more current flick paralleling Neal’s life with that Hanks/DiCaprio film. _Catch Me If You Can_ is a much more suitable depiction of a crook _,”_ Peter harrumphed.

“Neal would make a handsome and alluring antihero,” El said softly as she ignored her husband’s glare.

“Well, he would!” she insisted.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter surmised that Mozzie, hiding behind a pseudonym, was probably rapidly enriching his coffers by collecting royalties on this runaway best seller. To Peter’s way of thinking, the tell-all book was simply the result of a lonely man vicariously reliving his days in the sun with Neal. Before he had hooked up with a budding con artist, Mozzie had been just a two-bit scammer without a hint of daring panache. A young kid from the Midwest had elevated Mozzie’s status, and it was hard to let go of those heady feelings of glory. Ghost-writing this novel was probably the little guy’s nostalgic way of dealing with abandonment issues.

Peter knew that empty feeling well, and he had a myriad of techniques at his disposal to solve the problem. It shouldn’t be hard to run his quarry to ground, if that was the route he wanted to take. He could easily liaison with Interpol and ask them to utilize facial recognition to find the elusive former con artist. Thanks to intrusive reconnaissance regarding terror threats worldwide, nobody could remain invisible forever. However, patience and restraint weren’t Peter’s strong suits, so eventually, he put things into motion with the global sentinels. It wasn’t long before Interpol got a hit. But so what if a curious former handler now knew that Neal was residing in Nice on the French Riviera? Of course, his absent CI wasn’t using his real name, but the former felon hadn’t committed any crimes—at least not any overtly stupendous ones that the authorities knew about. What basis did Peter have for stalking his one-time friend, or even confronting him? Neal had earned the right to go where he wanted and do as he pleased as long as it didn’t conflict with the law. Peter knew he should just leave this alone and get on with his own life. But that was easier said than done.

“You could go to France to finally lay your demons to rest,” El prodded her husband.

“And if Neal wanted that to happen, he would have stayed here in New York, at least long enough to say a proper goodbye,” Peter said stubbornly. “Maybe I’m part of a life he’d like to forget, and the farther away from me the better, at least in his mind.”

“That sounds like a glib answer and maybe just a bit of cowardice on your part,” El taunted.

“Call it what you want, but I’m so done with him,” Peter complained to his wife, even though what she said rang true. He needed answers so that he could let go, once and for all.


	2. Chapter 2

Four months later, Peter took some accumulated annual leave from the Bureau, packed a bag, and shoved his passport into his pocket. Only Elizabeth was privy to the real reason for Peter’s trip abroad. He needed closure.

Eventually, Peter’s determined pilgrimage found him standing at the door of an understated stone villa overlooking the beautiful Mediterranean. The small surrounding courtyard was a riot of color from bougainvillea and lavender, and there was a definite salty tang to the gentle breezes that made the blossoms quiver and dance. He only had to knock once before Neal was standing before him with that same melancholy smile—the fateful one Peter remembered so well.

“Hello, Peter,” the long-absent man murmured softly.

“Neal,” Peter replied evenly, “I think we have some unfinished business to put to rest.”

“Perhaps we do,” Neal agreed as he swung the door wider to allow Peter into his sanctuary.

The interior of the house was almost austere in nature, sterile and uncluttered. There was a sofa and an end table with a lamp, but the majority of the space was taken up by easels set at different angles in front of the panoramic view of the ocean provided by unbroken panels of glass. The partially finished paintings on those easels were all landscapes of the seaside vista painted at different times of the day, and even during different seasons. They were mesmerizing to behold.

“I don’t see a replica of a Renoir or a Monet in the mix. Have you entered into a new ‘landscape’ period in your artistic life?” Peter murmured as he walked about and studied the captivating creations.

“You didn’t come all this way to critique my work, Peter,” Neal replied softly.

“No, you’re right. I didn’t,” Peter agreed. “I came here to get an answer out of you. Why did you just leave without a backward glance?”

Neal shrugged. “Maybe I’m not really good with goodbyes.”

“Oh, no, Buddy, you’re not getting off that easy,” Peter fumed. “That’s too pat of an answer. For once in your life, be honest and tell me the truth. I think I deserve that much out of you. You can’t just expect me to find you living a hedonistic existence under an alias and not have questions.”

“The new name is an act of necessity,” Neal said quietly.

“Yeah, I guess it is after Mozzie exposed you to the light,” Peter agreed. “How angry are you with your little former compatriot?”

“Moz did what he thought he needed to do,” Neal answered slowly. “I can’t fault him for that.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Peter almost sneered.

Neal sighed as he stared at his former friend before deflecting an argument in the making. “Why don’t you take a seat on the sofa and enjoy the view. I’ll be right back, and I won’t evaporate in a puff of smoke, I promise,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared behind a partition. A few minutes later he returned with two glasses of a ruby red wine.

“Sorry, but I don’t keep any beer on hand. Maybe you may like this Bordeaux if you give it a try.”

Peter accepted the offered amenity, took a sip, and then placed the glass on the floor since there was nowhere else to put it. Neal was standing at the windows gazing out at the ocean. “Beautiful, isn’t it, unfathomable and mercurial,” he murmured. “But you’re not here for the esthetics.”

“No, I’m not,” Peter replied sternly.

“I know you want a definitive answer,” the former CI hedged.

“After all our time together, I think that’s the least you could offer,” his former handler huffed.

Yet again, Peter witnessed that melancholy smile. “I guess to try to put this thing between us in perspective, I should ask a question first. How familiar are you with Friedrich Nietzsche, Peter? Did you know that he lived right here in Nice for a time?”

“I was a mathlete in college, Neal. Philosophy wasn’t on my syllabus,” Peter growled.

“Oh, c’mon, Peter,” Neal cajoled. “You are not that one-dimensional. You’re a very smart man in a lot of ways.”

“So, okay,” Peter said grudgingly, “I know he was a controversial German philosopher in the 1800s preaching some off-the-wall ideas about nihilism that led to that later adage of ‘God Is Dead’ stuff. He claimed that God became irrelevant when we killed him with intellectual progressive thinking. If memory serves me, the deluded guy ended up addicted to drugs and mentally deranged before dying at a relatively young age.”

“Ever read any of the many books that he wrote during his lifetime?” Neal next asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Peter said evenly, “but why are you trying to lead me off the topic and down some rabbit hole, Neal? I’m asking for a simple answer and you’re trying to make things complicated.”

“You wanted to know why I left, and I’m trying to give my rather abrupt departure some meaning,” was the hazy answer.

Peter was scowling when he answered, “Go on.”

Neal took a deep breath before starting his explanation. “The tenets that you ascribed to Nietzsche are correct as far as they go. Most people always attribute his ideas in a negative way, especially the ones about the Übermensch because that was said to be the impetus behind Hitler’s concept of a superior race. But the complicated and misunderstood philosopher had other provocatively intriguing ideas. I would label him as the astute predecessor of modern existentialism—the belief that each person creates their own values and determines the meaning of their life in an illogical empty world. For four long years, I was forced to live in your illogical world, Peter, living by your values. There was a distinct lack of free will and the ever-present threat of punishment if I didn’t conform to what society deemed as ‘right and just.’ Needless to say, that certainly wasn’t within my comfort zone.”

Peter is trying hard to make some sense of this discussion. “Okay, so that might have been a hardship for you, Buddy, but staying on the right side of the law paid off in the long run. Rehabilitation has its upside,” he insists.

Neal actually frowns at Peter’s outward naivete and wonders if it’s an act. Nonetheless, he continues the conversation. “According to Nietzsche, there exists in the world two types of diametrically opposed principles that he labeled a master-slave morality. The master culture is ‘good’ and espouses sterling noble actions of what the modern world deems as appropriate. The masters make the rules. The rest of society is stuck in a slave mentality of obeying them. If someone exerts their own sense of morality and it doesn’t conform, they are labeled as ‘bad.’ Of course, just by its very nature, this two-way dynamic is bound to clash for obvious reasons. Keep in mind that defiance of dictates goes back to Adam and Eve munching on an apple in the Garden of Eden.”

“There has to be laws, Neal, the same ones for everybody,” Peter argues.

Neal shakes his head slowly. “The masters create their laws and the slaves resent them. It’s as simple as that. If this resentment is played out, a continuing cycle is formed with the masters judging and the slaves reacting. All the punishment in the world is not going to alter a rebel’s perception and cause him to become reformed.”

“Okay, I’m with you so far during this trek into philosophical no-man’s land,” Peter admits, “but I still can’t understand how it pertains to us, Neal. You had voluntarily turned your life around, so there was no longer a need for some slave morality to be in play.”

“I can be very good at playing a role for an audience, Peter,” Neal offers his own admission.

“So, are you saying everything was a lie—four long years of pretending?” Peter demands to know.

“I’m saying that before I could define who or what I was, you literally put me in a box for almost a decade—four years in prison and then four more on the anklet. It was a long tedious progression of sitting on the shelf and being stuck in a preordained empty rut,” Neal argues.

Now Peter is shaking his head. “I have to say that I never pictured you as some lost immature adolescent trying to find the meaning of life, Neal. Even though you were barely in your twenties, you seemed to have it all together, and you were doing a great job of creating your own destiny, whether it was legal or otherwise.”

“Do we really create our own destinies, Peter?” Neal asks as he cocks his head. “According to our old philosopher friend, if there is no God with a grand plan, then the act of really living must be determined by chance—a simple flip of a coin. Maybe that’s what I thrive on, Peter. The adrenalin rush of not knowing what chance may entail, or what hand I’ll be dealt. The bigger the stakes, the greater the thrill. Maybe looking death in the face without a qualm is what it should be all about. When my time with you was up, I felt lost because I had no solidified persona. I didn’t have a real identity because I was always playing a role. At the end of my parole, I was like a man gasping for a life-affirming breath of air to make things real again. I didn’t feel completely fleshed out, and I pictured myself as standing in your shadow hanging on by a thread, a very thin thread. Maybe I just needed to feel alive and be the master of my own fate, whatever that is.”

“If you needed an endorphin rush, you could have taken up cliff diving, free-falling from a plane, or charming cobras, Neal,” Peter objected. “You didn’t need to run away and disappear. I think all this crap about ‘chance’ is really just a cop out—it’s an excuse and a lie you’re telling yourself so that you don’t have to commit to anything. ”

“Maybe, but perhaps facing what you call truth isn’t a simple thing for me,” Neal claimed in rebuttal. Then, in another abrupt departure from the discussion, Neal asked Peter a question. “Did you ever watch a television series called _The Sinner_ , specifically the last of the three versions in the trilogy?”

“No, I didn’t,” the confused older man replied. “Please enlighten me about what this has to do with you and me.”

Neal begins a brief synopsis. “The premise is about a milquetoast history teacher named Jamie Burns who lives in a little quiet town in New York state. He’s a faithful husband and eventually a father who has left a rather complicated past life behind as well as a person who played a pivotal role in defining his true nature. When that other nebulous man from his college days crashes into what Jamie has erected as a secure façade around himself, it causes our rather sympathetic hero to begin to face his real emptiness and rapidly unravel. A man named Nick Haas became a catalyst that caused a reaction in Jamie Burns, who then reverts back to another time in his existence when things weren’t so copacetic or black and white. Feelings that were more primal and dangerous awaken from stasis, and that was exhilarating for him. He starts to reexamine those resurrected feelings, because if feelings aren’t truth, then what is? Our experience of the world is largely shaped by our emotional reaction to it, so if someone’s trying to tell us our feelings aren’t real, then what’s left of reality for us except an empty sequence of places and people we can’t trust? This Jamie is a deeply flawed individual. He wants someone to understand him even though he doesn’t truly understand himself. During his downward spiral to find himself he hurts the people around him.”

Peter ponders this dark and creepy discussion for a few moments. “Maybe life is always going to be a mixture of truth and lies that we tell ourselves in order to make sense of the world around us.”

“And maybe we need to strip away all the ethics and morals imposed upon us by society so that we can face our own quixotic destiny,” Neal adds.

“How does this television series end, Neal?” Peter wants to know. “Does this troubled man find the answers he’s seeking? Does he _define_ himself or does he pay the piper for acts that push the envelope so that he can feel something?”

“It doesn’t end well, Peter,” is all that Neal is willing to admit.

“So, are you telling me that you believe you may be on a path to self-destruction, and that’s why you’ve distanced yourself from your friends? Or maybe you’re afraid that without supervision you’ll hurt people in your life during your descent into hell?”

“I’m not afraid of death, you know,” Neal murmurs softly.

“No, but it seems like you’re afraid of living, Neal, because you’re experiencing some kind of existential crisis of the soul,” Peter answers just as quietly. “I don’t need you to protect me from you, or to spare me from watching you take risks. By believing you can shield me from being hurt if I don’t see you fall is just stupid. You once were my friend, so it will always matter and it will always hurt.”

“Just go home to your wife and your secure life that makes so much sense to you, Peter,” Neal implores. “Don’t try to understand me or slide me into a logical little pigeonhole.”

“Are you saying I should just turn away so that you can do what, exactly?” Peter wants the truth. “Is it only a matter of time before you start pulling off stupendous heists for kicks, or standing on the edge of a very steep drop deciding if you should jump? Or does this eventually end when you decide to terminate your life because you’ve become disenchanted with what you perceive as an empty existence? You’re not Kurt Cobain, or Robin Williams, or even Ernest Hemingway, who put a bullet through his own brain. Don’t even go there!”

“Regardless of what you think, you can’t change me into you, Peter. Your life is never going to be mine, not really, and I’m done pretending and placating people around me.”

“Even if those people have your best interest at heart and worry about you, maybe even love you?” Peter asks poignantly.

“I don’t deserve anybody’s emotional angst,” the young man says in rebuttal. “Just think of me as someone you used to know and leave it at that.”

“That’s never going to happen,” Peter vows. “Neal, why couldn’t you have discussed all these troubling thoughts with me before you left?”

Neal looks Peter in the eye. “Because you would have wanted me to stay, Peter, so you could ‘fix’ me. That’s what you do to maintain the status quo in your world. Then I may have wavered just like I once did on the tarmac right before Kate was killed. You always want to map out people’s lives and you have a hard time letting go and relinquishing control. So I thought ripping the band aid off was the best way to end it.”

“It wasn’t the best way, Neal, but it was certainly the most hurtful,” Peter whispers poignantly.

“I’m sorry, Peter, I really am.” And Peter suspects Neal truly means it.


	3. Chapter 3

And that is how they left things between them—insubstantial and less than fulfilling. Peter had quietly departed the villa with the amazing view and the many paintings—not one of them yet finished. They were still works in progress, and Peter wondered if they would ever reach a conclusion just like the man who was creating them. Peter returned home to New York still struggling to understand a complicated young man who had once been a friend. He tried to make sense of their dialogue and put it into actual words for El.

“I think it’s too simplistic to just label him an adrenalin junkie,” Peter says helplessly. “But when I think back to all our more dangerous cases, Neal never had any qualms about daring to put his life on the line. He seemed to relish pushing things to the limit whether that entailed facing down a perp with a gun, zip-lining across New York canyons, or base jumping off high buildings. Those edgy instances of possible peril seemed to make him come alive and shine, although I always attributed it to hubris and a stupid, immature sense of being invincible. Now I’m even questioning whether it was ever about money or personal gain. Maybe all those acts of pulling off the impossible were just ways of tempting fate.”

“But now you think it’s more complicated than that?” El prodded.

“More complicated and more intangible,” Peter confessed. “I think I have to read more about a certain German philosopher.”

Peter’s foray into Nietzsche’s philosophical meanderings left him feeling out of his depth. He poured over volumes and volumes that were serpentine and almost scary. Finally, in desperation, he resorted to surfing the web for a more user-friendly “Nietzsche for Dummies” type alternative. All he managed to figure out by the end of the day was that the old philosopher urged one to stop evading anguish. Instead, he advocated one should embrace hardship and pain so that truth could be born. In Peter’s mind, what exactly constituted “truth” for Neal? Was the young man in the throes of an emotional breakdown? Did he need professional help to come back into the light before he passed the point of no return? Next on Peter’s agenda was watching that television show, _The Sinner_. Maybe there was an answer he could grasp somewhere in the eight episodes.

Jamie Burns, the lead in the tv show, _The Sinner_ , is a sympathetic character at first, obviously plagued by another person named Nick Haas who exudes a sinister Svengali miasma. They have a history that eventually becomes clearer via flashbacks to their college days and esoteric philosophy classes. Like all young, intellectual people on the cusp of self-exploration, they think only they possess the answers to the mysteries of the universe. Kindred spirits bond in their quest for what they deem as real truth. This phantom from days gone by reestablishes his psychological hold over Jamie, the quintessential sycophant with his own deeply sublimated issues. Nick and Jamie eventually resume a daring and perilous odyssey that culminates in just one of them left standing. As the story continues, the viewer desperately wants Jamie to be saved, but the handsome schoolteacher finds himself morphing into a caricature of his former friend. Slowly but surely, he begins to disintegrate as he passes the point of no return and becomes a killer.

To further complicate matters, an older detective named Harry Ambrose gloms onto Jamie as a possible murder suspect. The cop finds himself becoming conflicted because he knows he should be able to figure this convoluted man out, but he just can’t. Ambrose is drawn into Jamie’s world like a moth to the flame and he travels down through the circles of hell in his own Dante’s Inferno during the journey. Incredulously, the older man eventually gets caught up in Jamie’s daring rhetoric and risks his own life to experience a near-death scenario. He later claims it was all a ploy to obtain Jamie’s trust and get a confession. But if Ambrose was completely honest, it was like he had been infected with some form of lethal virus that had no antidote. Maybe he’s more like Jamie than he’s willing to admit, but the older man keeps his own pathos shuttered and deeply sublimated.

Of course, Peter didn’t need some brick building to fall on him to see the parallels between these fictional characters and his own relationship with Neal. His professional as well as his personal life had become insidiously entwined with Neal’s over the course of the last four years, maybe even before that. Many times during Neal’s supervision on the anklet, Peter had ignored the rules and covered for a felon. In fact, at one point, his own atypical behavior had scared him enough that he had tried to distance himself from Neal, once and for all, to avoid his own fall from grace. But, of course, that was just a temporary flash in the pan. It was as if he and his responsibility were karmically connected and could never really free themselves of the tie that bound them together.

So, unfortunately, Peter now still has more questions than answers. Did Neal flee out of concern for Peter? Was his motive really an altruistic one—an attempt to sever that possibly lethal connection to spare Peter any hurt or possible fallout? Was Neal even capable of feeling compassion or love, or was it all about searching for the ultimate high as he steamrolled over those around him? Maybe Peter would never fully know Neal’s intent or the intrinsic nature that he claimed had been put on hold until he was free to explore it. All that Peter knew at this point in time was that, as a former con man's friend, he was deeply saddened, depressed, and completely powerless. That was a hard pill to swallow.

El had watched _The Sinner_ with Peter as well. “If this is really how Neal views himself, then you have to step back, Hon,” she warned. “You can’t hold yourself accountable for who or what he really is. That’s only going to be a path to your own destruction.”

“But I should have seen it somewhere along the line,” Peter says miserably. “I was going through the days with blinders on, and that is a less than sterling quality in a supposedly smart FBI agent.”

“Neal only let you see what you wanted to see,” El says sensibly. “You couldn’t have picked up on a Jekyll and Hyde phenomenon if Neal kept it deeply hidden. You need to let yourself off the hook now. What will be, will be.”

Peter was still in deep contemplation. “What I saw while watching _The Sinner_ was the work of a sick sociopath managing to manipulate and control a more malleable young person. Did Neal see me in that role, a stronger master force controlling him and compelling him to kowtow to the party line? Did he envision me like a version of Nick Haas? Or did he come to see me as the Harry Ambrose in his life?”

“Hon, you need to stop doubting yourself,” El pleaded. “Go back in time and assume the role of what you do best.”

Eventually a disillusioned man took his wife’s advice. He got back to dealing with criminals who were less complicated—perps he could understand, outsmart, then apprehend to make them pay for their sins against the law. He steadfastly refused to ever work with another informant and he stopped accessing Interpol’s database. He was in self-protective, survivor mode. If he didn’t know certain things, then he couldn’t perseverate over something that was out of his control. That worked for the next six months until he got the fateful phone call late one night.

“I don’t like how we left things, Peter,” Neal soft voice wafted across the connection like a caress. “I happen to be in town right now, so do you think we could meet to put things in a better perspective?”

“You can stop by the house,” Peter heard himself saying against his better judgment.

“Maybe we could meet on more neutral ground,” Neal suggested. “I’m actually right here in Midtown at 220 Central Park South, if it’s not too much trouble for you to come back into the city.”

Peter knew that address marked the site of an ambitious project currently still under construction to erect the tallest unit of residential condo apartments in the city. When finished, it was meant to have 131 floors reaching over 1500 feet far above the streets below, and the price for this astronomical view started in the millions. Leave it to Neal to go big or go home.

“What floor is your apartment on?” Peter asked coolly, realizing that it took little effort on Neal’s part to have Peter come running at his beck and call.

“Oh, I haven’t actually moved into this place,” Neal informed Peter. “I just thought the outdoor terrace and pool area on the 14th floor might be a nice quiet venue for us to have our discussion. I’m standing right here at the moment, and it’s really beautiful and peaceful as well as deserted. Care to join me?”

There really was no decision for Peter to make; it was an inevitable and forgone conclusion that he would climb into his car and make the attempt to revisit a discussion left open-ended in France. All kinds of nebulous hopes and tremulous doubts clouded his mind as he crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and made his way into the city. Eventually, he reached his destination and finds a parking space between 7th and 8th Avenues near Columbus Circle. He cranes his head up and can’t even visualize the zenith of this modern-day marvel, and it somehow seems appropriate that this is where the showdown should be—"cappuccino in the clouds,” as he once described Neal’s life after prison.

Peter’s footfalls echo across the marble-floored lobby that is quiet at this late hour, and he then takes an empty elevator to the 14th floor in search of the described beautiful outdoor terrace. It isn’t all that hard to find, but it is steeped in darkness with only the underwater lights in the 60-foot pool illuminating shadows that cover the space like a blanket. Peter pivots uncertainly as he searches for Neal, and then his heart almost stops beating in his chest when he does spy his former friend. Neal is dressed in black from head to toe—black turtleneck, black trousers and shoes, and a black overcoat that casually drapes from his shoulders. Somehow, he has managed to scale a solid waist-high cement balustrade topped with an intricate black wrought-iron railing, and is now precariously balanced on a very narrow ledge. One small step and he will be walking into oblivion.

“Neal, what are you doing?” Peter whispers.

“Staring death in the face to see who blinks first,” Neal answers just as softly.

Peter knows he must tread lightly. “You know, Buddy, I did watch that television show, _The Sinner_ ,” he begins quietly, “and I think you’re recreating an early scene between Jamie and Harry that occurred just like this. Why is it necessary for you to do that, Neal? I just don’t understand. Do you want me to talk you down or are you intending to punish me by making me witness your death?”

“I’m simply playing a game of chance,” Neal answers. “Wanna play?” he adds as he tosses something over his shoulder. Peter’s reflexes are good and he catches what is a quarter in the palm of his hand.

“How about this, Peter? Flip that coin. If you get heads, I’ll climb back down. If it’s tails, then you can imagine what comes next. You literally have my fate in your hands, just like you did for so many years. Are you game to see how this all plays out in our own little drama?”

“I’m not doing that, Neal,” Peter answers firmly. “You don’t get to make me complicit in your madness.”

“It’s not madness, Peter. It’s the way of the world even if you don’t want to accept that. People die all the time even though they didn’t plan on it. By chance, they drove their car one day when a drunk driver met them head on, or they took a particular doomed flight. Others did everything right health wise but were taken out by a lurking aneurysm. There are no real answers or predetermined fate; it’s all a crapshoot.”

“But you want to control the variables tonight, so that somehow seems like cheating,” Peter remarks sarcastically.

“Flip the coin, Peter. Man up and do it,” Neal dares.

“Your story doesn’t have to parallel _The Sinner_ , Neal,” Peter says sternly. “Even for you, that’s a bit cliché. I would have expected something more intricate and stupendous rather than a mundane parody.”

“Flip the coin, Peter,” Neal repeats yet again.

“I’m not some version of Harry Ambrose, Neal,” Peter almost yells in frustration. “I will not endure the rest of my life seeing your blood on my hands!”

The quiet of the night lingers with just the faint hum of traffic below. It is almost as if the two men are suspended in a moment in time that is superimposed over reality—Neal’s reality, however flawed it is. Nonetheless, they can’t move forward. They are at an impasse and it is on Peter’s shoulders to break the deadlock. So, he takes a deep breath and uses his thumb to propel the quarter high into the moonlight. When it begins its descent, he slaps it onto the back of his hand, and regardless of what he sees when he removes his palm, he is going to say, truthfully or untruthfully, that he is looking at heads. The question is—will Neal believe him?

There must be someone up there in heaven, because Peter’s silent prayer is answered. The coin displays heads, and he lets a tense breath escape his chest. “I win and so do you, Neal,” Peter almost whispers. “It’s heads, so now it’s time for you to keep your promise. Get down and stop giving me a heart attack.”

Neal turns his shoulders slightly and his eyes bore into Peter’s. “Are you telling me the real truth or your truth?”

“I’m not lying to you,” Peter says earnestly.

“No, of course you aren’t. You’re all about the truth, and you always were,” Neal agrees. “I was always the one lying to other people.”

“That was then and this is now, Neal,” Peter pleads as he realizes how much of a hypocrite Neal has made him. However, this is not a time for facing that dichotomy, so he tries more cajoling. “You once said that during all the deceptions, you never once told me a direct lie. So don’t start now. You said that you would abide by the coin flip, so come down so we can put this all behind us. You don’t have to prove anything to me or yourself.”

“I also once told you that you were the only one who could change my mind. Do you remember that?” Neal asks almost wistfully.

“Of course,” Peter recalls, “It was the first time you actually contemplated leaving everything behind to start a new chapter in your story with Kate.”

“Yeah, it was, and now that seems like I was living a life belonging to somebody else,” Neal answers almost sorrowfully. “Was I fooling myself even back then?”

“Neal, you know who you really are and so do I. You don’t have to keep seeking to change or to find the light. You don’t need to revert back to something primal lurking deep within you, or whatever the hell you’re trying to do. Maybe you’ve deluded yourself into thinking your past with me was all a façade. I think you should give up this quest to resurrect some foreign alter ego who seems to have no soul or substance. That’s not who you are,” Peter repeats that caveat once again. Maybe if he says it enough times, a suicidal man will begin to believe it.

“Eloquent psychobabble is definitely not your forte, Peter,” Neal says with a little smile. “But I guess a deal is a deal.”

Peter stands as still as a statue as Neal gracefully pivots, heaves his body up on his straightened forearms, and then slings his long legs over the railing. He takes a few tentative steps in Peter’s direction, and without giving it any thought, Peter is rushing forward and enfolding his former CI in a tight embrace. “Thank God,” Peter mumbles in Neal’s ear.

“Nah, God had nothing to do with it. Thank _you_ , Peter,” Neal whispers softly as he allows himself to be hugged.

“We’ll get you some help, Buddy, maybe a real shrink so that you can begin to unravel all those painful knots in your brain,” Peter urges.

“Not necessary,” Neal says lightly as he pulls away. “I think I’ve finally figured everything out. I just had to make sure that you really saw me for what I am, warts and all, and still think I’m worth saving.”

“Always,” Peter admits, but Neal is already walking away and disappearing down a stairwell. His parting words echo in the dark. “There’s a gift for you sitting over by the wall.”

As the almost imperceptible sounds of Neal’s footsteps fade, Peter slowly approaches a rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. With trembling hands, he removes the covering and it reveals one of Neal’s magnificent landscapes which, to Peter’s eye, now looks completely finished. A relieved man puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. He’s still not sure where this thing stands or where it’s going to go. He almost feels a bit of fear because everything is still murky. During the ensuing few minutes of regaining his emotional equilibrium, his fingers feel the ridges of the quarter in his pocket and he pulls it out. It represents a fragile talisman that separated life from death. He turns it over and over in his palm until it takes on the warmth of his cupped hand, and it is then that he notices the anomaly. He peers closer and realizes that Neal had given him a two-headed coin. Peter smiles because it hadn’t been chance at all. Neal, just like Jamie Burns in _The Sinner,_ really didn’t want to die when the chips were down. He wanted someone that he trusted to throw him a lifeline. He desperately wished to be saved so that he could keep on living. Right now, that was all that mattered. Maybe Neal was still a work in progress, or maybe he had found himself. Either way, two friends would see it through together.


End file.
